


not otherwise specified

by yavanei



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, addressing loose threads in akashi's arc post winter cup, references to mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yavanei/pseuds/yavanei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since a young age, it was never a question whether people would defer to Akashi. He was – <i>is</i> – a prodigy, and this has always been an inescapable and undeniable truth. True, there are many who might say Akashi’s circumstances aren’t necessarily special or unique. In this society there are many parents who force unfathomable expectations on children. The difference, however, lies only in the fact that Akashi was able to meet all of these expectations unfailingly and without slowing down.</p>
<p>Akashi Seijuurou is a leader, and this has always been his greatest strength and his ultimate curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not otherwise specified

Time passes. This is a reality of life – an absolute of existence.

Akashi Seijuurou can see into the future, and once he thought this was enough.

But memory is a fickle creature.

The sun sets overhead, a hazy, blotted red, and he crosses his arms. In the distance he can see shadows creeping out, slowly embracing the sky. A tree once covered in cherry blossoms is sullied with the remnants of melting snow. The wind is bitter and harsh against his cheek, reddening his pale skin, but it’s a refreshing feeling. It reminds him he is real.

Truth be told, ever since he began attending school in Kyoto, he avoids visiting home often. _Home._ The word itself leaves a hollow, bitter taste on Akashi’s tongue.

This is what he knows. There has always been two of him.

If asked, he would be unable to pinpoint the exact moment the other personality state began to manifest. In his early childhood, he had the sensation of there being another part of him split off from the main stream of his consciousness, but his awareness of this second self was not concrete.

It wasn’t until he resurfaced while sitting on the bench during the match against Seirin that he was able to acknowledge the extent of his condition – a condition ultimately born from his own weakness.

His own fragile state of mind is not something he takes pleasure in admitting to, but in the weeks following the Winter Cup he has done his research.

This is what he knows. There is no such thing as one completely integrated personality.

Almost every individual in the world has different sides they choose to show at different times and in different situations. More or less, everyone has certain roles they may play. A man in a business meeting may appear one way within that meeting surrounded by his peers, and an entirely different way in the comfort of his own home.

His disorder is an extreme manifestation of this.

The other him is an embodiment of victory. He’s not sure he would classify his misbegotten little brother as a totally separate identity, but rather _parts_ of him that are not functioning together in a coordinated way. The other Akashi is still Akashi. They’re both Akashi, both facets of his core identity but –

Imagine trying to explain this to someone.

* * *

Akashi Seijuurou’s status in school, first year president of the student council, first year captain of the basketball club meant that people talked about him. He knows this, of course, as he never bats an eye when Mibuchi and the other members of the team bring up the various rumors they’ve heard about him. Most of the time, Akashi simply smiles in that strange and mysterious way he is oft to do, and lets them come to their own conclusions. (However, there were some rumors far too ridiculous that Akashi would immediately shake his head and offer a curt, “False.”)

If there is one thing Mibuchi knows for certain about Akashi Seijuurou, it’s that he knows how to keep a polite distance from others. He’s been on the same basketball team with him for nearly a year, and even in the midst of their captain and vice captain meetings, he’s never truly learned about Akashi’s personal life.

It’s not for lack of trying, either. Mibuchi has asked, but Akashi’s responses always leave him hanging. They always leave him greedy for more.

Akashi is popular, but he hardly even tries. Mibuchi doubts he cares about such petty things, but you see… Akashi has perfected the art of being alone.

And oh, it _is_ an art.

Mibuchi stands on the sidelines of the court as he takes a sip from his water bottle. The gymnasium is quiet today, save for the three pairs of feet across the court. After winter break, they will need to begin screening potential candidates from the other strings to fill the position Mayuzumi retired from.

Mibuchi watches as Akashi fluidly passes the ball to Nebuya, who catches it with ease and dunks. Rakuzan may have lost the Winter Cup, but their basketball remains absolute so long as Akashi remains captain.

Akashi is the smallest person on the team, oftentimes the smallest person on the entire court. But… maybe small is too cruel a word, Mibuchi thinks, as he watches him jog to the other side of the court.

To put it simply, Akashi is flawless, absolutely efficient, and anyone who watches him in motion cannot deny his perfection. He is compact. He moves without the fumbling, gangly sorts of movements that many boys taller than him are prone to making. He’s graceful in a way that Mibuchi – and others – cannot help but admire.

And it is through the lens of ‘others’ that Akashi is often spoken of. One person’s perception of him may be fuzzy, another’s rose-tinted with desire, and another’s enraged with defeat at his hands, but the vast majority of people’s thoughts on their illustrious captain fall under the category of hushed whispers and puzzled glances.

Because you see, no one truly _knows_ Akashi Seijuurou. Not even his teammates. Though each of them greatly admire and respect him, he’s an enigma, and Mibuchi isn’t sure if this is entirely of his own doing.

The truly dreadful part about it all is just when Mibuchi thought he’d begun to understand his captain, he changed. Not entirely, mind you, but a change definitely took place.

When Akashi motions for the other two to take a break, Mibuchi throws him a towel and hands him a spare water bottle. He runs the towel over his face before dropping it around his neck.

“Thanks,” he says before squeezing water into his mouth.

"Nice passes!" Nebuya enthusiastically slaps Akashi on the back, hard enough to make him totter a bit, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Akashi nods. “The trajectory of the last one was slightly inadequate.”

Nebuya shrugs. “Seemed fine to me?”

“It was only off by a fraction. Not noticeable to anyone save me, but I’ll adjust it.”

When Nebuya grabs Hayama by the shoulder and yanks him toward the locker room, Mibuchi glances at Akashi who is staring at the basketball goal, seemingly lost in thought.

"Sei-chan, are you all right?"

"Yes, why do you ask?" Akashi continues staring out across the court.

"Ever since the Winter Cup… you’re – it’s not that you’ve changed, exactly, but…”

Mibuchi trails off when Akashi angles his head, sharp red eyes zeroing in on Mibuchi’s violet ones.

There is silence for several seconds before Akashi says, “Truthfully, I have a bit of a headache.”

"Oh my, that won’t do. I have medicine in my locker if you need any.”

"Yes, actually, that would be generous of you.”

As Mibuchi starts to walk away, Akashi’s voice stops him.

“Mibuchi, did you prefer the way I was before?”

There is no hesitation or self-doubt in Akashi’s voice whatsoever, and when Mibuchi turns to face him again, Akashi’s face is still the same smooth and expressionless mask he has become painfully accustomed to seeing from his captain.

“That wasn’t what I meant, Sei-chan. I like you either way,” he pauses. “Though you used to call me Reo.”

"Is that how you wish me to address you?"

"Yes… but only if you don’t mind," Mibuchi says.

"Then it’s not a problem, Reo," Akashi smiles at him.

Mibuchi’s eyes light up and he smiles back.

* * *

His father knows the day he returns for winter break. It’s a curious thing that his father always knew of his perfect marks in school, his exemplary conduct as the student council president, and the scores of his winning games…

One would think he would have known about his condition, but Akashi supposes that would be expecting too much from a man he rarely saw.

Akashi Masaomi does not so much as even glance up from the file in his hand as he relays the news – the news of his loss. He does not inform his father of his wins. That would be wholly unnecessary. His victory is but a simple fact of life, after all – a standard he abides by at all times. He has never dealt with defeat before.

Until now.

So he thinks – he thinks this is what he’s _supposed_ to do. A chill coils up his spine, and Akashi’s voice dips in pitch, hovering just over the breaking point as he struggles to form the words: I – I’ve – _lost_ …

He briefly wonders if his father will punish him.

There is silence for several minutes, and the pendulum in the long case clock behind his father's western-styled antique desk sways left and right, back and forth. Akashi can hear the gears moving with each swing, and is reminded of his father once telling him he found the sound relaxing.

Tick.

Tock –

Tick.

Tock –

Akashi's eyes flick to the clock. His father still hasn't spoken and the silence is becoming unbearable. There is a similar pendulum clock in the dining room, and it ticks and ticks and ticks incessantly just like this one. It ticks and ticks and ticks every time Akashi is forced to sit at the table directly across from his father as they eat. It ticks and ticks and ticks as his father grills him about his daily life at school and his extracurricular activities.

Tick –

Tock.

Tick –

Tock.

Akashi would break every clock in the house if it meant he could escape that detestable noise.

He glances back to his father, who is still consumed in the paperwork in front of him, barely even sparing a second thought to his son.

Tick.

Tock –

Tick.

Tock –

The clock chimes.

Akashi jumps, caught unawares by the noise, and it is only then he realizes his hands are cold and clammy as they brush against the fabric of his pants and –

There are sounds around him – shouting, cheering, and the echo of feet pounding across the court, but above all of that is the buzzer of the scoreboard blaring.

_I must win. No matter who my opponent is. No matter what happens._

_Because otherwise...._

_Because otherwise…_

_Because otherwise…_

He blinks rapidly; vision blurring as sweat obscures his eyesight. He brings the back of a shaky hand up, wiping away the ill-placed water. The clamor pervades his eardrums, echoes off the very surface of his skin and for a moment it is the only thing he can hear above the frantic hammering of his heart.

He makes to move, but his feet will not follow his commands. He is staring at the scoreboard, and the shouting is becoming louder as the residual noise from the buzzer dies out.

His chest tightens and he – he can’t – he can’t breathe –

 

SEIRIN   |   RAKUZAN

106              105

 

He wonders if this is what dying feels like.

 

"But this is what you wanted, right?"

The voice is there, just beneath the surface, a smug edge to it.

Akashi shakes his head, hands clenching into tight fists at his side, and he closes his eyes because he knows what comes next, he knows –

Water pools in his eyes, obscuring his vision again as the hot tears edge down the soft angles of his cheek. When he opens his eyes he is face to face with himself.

“You tried to kill me.”

There’s a small pang of guilt in Akashi’s heart at his accusatory tone but he ignores it.

"If you lost I thought you would cease to exist, allowing me to return,” he whispers. “Yes, this was the most viable plan."

"But you couldn’t do it."

"No… it seems I even underestimated my own desire to win."

"You’re a failure, Seijuurou. You should have let me keep playing."

Akashi flashes two narrowed red eyes at his counterpart’s mismatched ones.

“You single-handedly crushed the game yourself. Any chance of victory was thrown aside when you abandoned our teammates.”

"Sometimes sacrifices must be made."

"You’re a child," Akashi dismisses him. "One who cannot even comprehend the severity of your actions."

"I still do not know defeat," he replies, calmly. "Which is more than you can say."

Akashi catapults back to the here and now when he hears the hard edge of his father’s voice. His knitted brows and perturbed expression come into sight as Akashi’s vision refocuses.

“How… _disappointing_ ,” he says, drawing out the word as he jots a note in pen across a blank paper.

There it is. There’s that loathsome word that makes Akashi cringe inwards, as if his very insides are being pried apart and examined for their _value_.

The pen in his father’s hand clatters to the table and their eyes meet as he says, “But I’m certain in the future you will not make the same mistake. Do not bring shame to the family name again, Seijuurou.”

_The_ family name, he says. _The_. Not _our._ His father talks about the future as if Akashi must strangle it, must tear the life from it until it bows to his every whim. Akashi wonders what more it would possibly take before his father deems him worthy of even belonging to this household to begin with.

Lately, Akashi also wonders if he is simply beyond caring.

He has long since learned that everything in life is a zero sum. In shogi, there is a winner and there is a loser. One person’s gain is another person’s loss. In basketball it is the same.

This is what he believes, and this is what he has always believed. There are those that may say this is too black and white. They may say, in everyday life, things are not always so clear-cut and wins and losses are not always so easily quantified.

But he has never agreed. In win-win scenarios, both parties gain something. This is acceptable, but in win-lose and lose-lose scenarios, there is only that – loss.

Akashi is not one prone to speaking before thinking, but in this moment the cold, noiseless fear he felt a mere moment before seeps out of his bones and he remembers…

He remembers playing the violin, a common practice he was to attend to every day as part of his rigorous studies. The sound starts low and warm in pitch, whispering, and he steadily adds pressure, the notes reaching higher and higher until the melody is borderline agonizing. A mournful, desperate sound –

There’s a picture on the fireplace mantle. He does not speak of her often, but thinks of her every day – a mental exercise, if you will – because how else would he remember the smile on her face as she handed him a basketball?

When she was still alive, his mother made him his food.

There was a restraint in the way her fingers curved around the handle of the knife, chopping cabbage and slicing onions at the countertop. He thinks he was probably too young then to recognize how every word, every smile, was tinged with a barely noticeable sense of grief. He wonders if she was happy at all. He sometimes even wonders if she would have been happier if she never had him.

When she finished preparing breakfast, she would sit with him eating miso soup and white rice. Now eight household workers attend to his every whim, and a hired chef makes food that is – in every respect – better than his mother’s.

And this is why he hates being home. (One of many reasons.)

_"Seijuurou,"_ there's a soft, gentle, voice at the edge of his consciousness. _"You can take a break. Let's go outside."_

Akashi turns and in the periphery of his vision, he can see long, flowing red hair – Akashi Shiori is laughing, motioning for him to follow, and her eyes are bright in a way that they aren’t around his father, in a way that makes him certain she never regretted a single thing.

In an instant the image disappears like a slate being wiped clean.

He can’t remember if he cried at his mother’s funeral. Perhaps the entire ordeal was too shocking for him. He remembers during that period of his life there were days he was self-aware, but simultaneously mind numbingly detached. It’s like being trapped in a dream. A wakeless and unending nightmare. Only he knew it was reality.

Defeat. He has never experienced that before. When Rakuzan lost to Seirin, he felt as if his chest was caving in, as if his very existence was crumbling, and try as he might, he couldn’t control his fraying composure.

But loss? Perhaps it would be a lie to say he has never experienced loss. Death is loss. Death is the ultimate defeat in life.

"Mother," Akashi says, careful to steady his voice. "Did you love her?"

His father's eyes are steely and unmoving, and they linger for several seconds before flicking away.

"What an absurd question," he scowls. "Of course I did. We're done here, Seijuurou."

Akashi remains in the room a moment longer, but realizes the futility of his actions. He gives his father a curt nod before leaving.

The stable is quiet save for the infrequent chomping of hay and grains that can be heard when he enters. Yukimaru’s head peeks out over the box stall when Akashi steps foot inside, instinctively sensing his presence.

“Hey there,” Akashi says as he approaches.

He reaches out a hand to pet Yukimaru’s face, and laughs when he hears a soft nicker. “I know, I know. I missed you too.”

His mind drifts back to his father’s last words as he absentmindedly strokes Yukimaru’s snowy white mane. Akashi does not believe him, and maybe that's unfair, but he never claimed to have a great understanding of his father’s feelings or thoughts by any degree. Perhaps once he felt affection toward his mother, but his actions after her death left little doubt in Akashi's mind. It would be a lie to say he didn't resent his father for this.

_I'll kill anyone who opposes me. Even my own parents._

It would be a lie to say he didn't resent his father for many things.

His father wishes to create him in his image. Akashi Masaomi wishes to better himself through his own son. He shouldn’t hold his breath.

“Like father, like son.”

No. He will never be his father. He will never give him that satisfaction.

* * *

Midorima lies on his futon as he counts grains in the ceiling, half-resting, half-contemplating getting up to start his pre-bedtime stretches even though it’s barely evening yet. Just as he decides on the latter, he hears the faint buzzing of his cell phone. He rolls over, sliding it off the nightstand.

He sits up, back ramrod straight, when he reads the caller ID.

“Akashi?”

There are certain things in life which cannot be changed no matter what. Fundamental truths of existence, natural phenomenon like gravity, and fate. These are constants.

“I have a favor to ask you,” the familiar voice replies.

* * *

When Midorima turns the corner he sees crimson strands of hair blowing in the wind. Akashi stands against a backdrop of the fading sun, its color splashed across the sky like blood in water. The light is violent and bright, and Midorima looks for as long as he can until he must avert his eyes.

Akashi hasn’t moved, though. The sun slants in its descent in the sky, and he is bathed in its effervescent light.

Books have a beginning and an end. There are prologues and there are epilogues. There’s the introduction and the conclusion. When you open a book, you turn the pages with the knowledge that no matter where things lead, there is an ending awaiting you.

Life is not quite the same. There are no beginnings, there aren’t quite endings either. There are broken images and fragments and often you are haphazardly thrown straight in the middle and forced to decide where to go.

It is in the middle where he – where all of them – veered off course. It is in the middle that another fragment peered through the fissures of Akashi’s mind, and it was always – always – just like a gruesome accident waiting to happen, but when he glances up at him with a penetrating yellow eye, Midorima cannot look away.

Akashi’s blazer is neatly laid across the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up.

"Shintarou. Shall we continue our game?”

His own name sounds foreign coming from Akashi’s lips.

Midorima knows, and he has always known. He wonders if he could trade knowledge for ignorance, wonders if this would make it easier. It’s the knowing that hurts, the excruciating helplessness that knowledge brings. The knowing that there is nothing he can do, and that the person he would have asked – would have shared his suspicions with – is the same person now cut adrift, locked somewhere in a place he will never be able to reach.

_You used to talk to me. Tell me, Akashi. Tell me who you are. Speak. Tell me, what are you thinking? Think._

**_dissociation [dis·so·ci·a·tion]_ **

_-noun_

  *          _the disconnection or separation of something from something else or the state of being disconnected._
  *          _separation of normally related mental processes, resulting in one group functioning independently from the rest, leading in extreme cases to disorders such as dissociative identity (prev. known as multiple personality.)_



There are a multitude of reasons Midorima knows this is not the _him_ from before.

Examples are as follows:

  1.                 There is an impenetrable distance between them that was not there before.
  2.                 They don’t talk about it. They walk home, shoulder to shoulder, in stark moonlight, as they always do, because words are hollow in the face of this. Because words can’t quantify or qualify. Because words can’t form farewells. They don’t know how to say goodbye. Not yet, anyway.
  3.                 He does not play shogi quite the same.



Akashi is still cautious, this is normal behavior for him; always intent on prioritizing the bigger picture. He sets up his defense, but twelve moves into the game Midorima feels something is off. As it continues, he notices Akashi attacks aggressively far earlier in the match and far faster than Midorima is accustomed to. He is relentless, and as a result, Midorima captures several of his pieces. At the time, Midorima was short-sighted enough to think Akashi lost them unwillingly. He was short-sighted enough to think he was inches away from making Akashi surrender. (Akashi did always try to tell him, didn’t he? Plan ahead without your opponent becoming aware of it.)

But Midorima miscalculates. He finds himself stuck in a defensive position, and only too late does he realize he has already lost the game. Akashi collapses his defense, and Midorima is trapped by his own pieces – several of which he captured from Akashi in the first place. Akashi grasps his king, and leaves him stunned.

He raises one eyebrow, looking at the four pieces of Akashi’s he has in hand, and the eight others he dropped back onto the board. “A bit of a pyrrhic victory don’t you think?”

“Hardly,” Akashi’s voice has that cool, unaffected air to it that Midorima is still trying to get used to. “A victory is a victory. For the sake of that, the losses are ultimately negligible.”

"You can’t think you’re infallible, Akashi. You can’t control everything.”

"Don’t be foolish, Shintarou. There is nothing in my life I cannot control."

Midorima isn’t surprised by what he says; he’s surprised by the fact that he believes it.

In the future, he will witness something which uncannily reminds him of this day. He will watch Akashi stand still and silent on a crowded court, and he will watch him abandon his teammates one by one as he enters the Zone.

Everything is a board to Akashi. Everyone is a piece on that board, and when tools do not function properly, they are discarded.

The last example is what Midorima will remember in the years to come – a splinter he will never be able to work out of his skin even if he wants to. (He doesn’t.)

   4.               He has lost track of how many times he has looked into heterochromatic eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the friend he once knew.

"Akashi," he finds his voice one night, pausing momentarily next to a street lamp. "Help me understand."

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Akashi stares back at him, resolute. “There’s nothing to understand, Shintarou."

His eyes are unwavering, leaving no room for reproach, no opening for argument. So, Midorima bites his tongue, sews his mouth shut, and chokes on his words. No one in the first string is quite the same anymore, and he thinks… he thinks maybe he isn’t either.

Their conversations are now half-forgotten things, as vacant as an empty room. He tells himself to let Akashi – whoever he is now – go.

But that’s so much easier said than done.  
  
Akashi continues onward, and Midorima notices something different in his stride. Akashi has always been proud, but the way he is now, Midorima can’t help but see someone who knows the world is meant to kneel before him.

The others may not have seen it, but even before he changed, Akashi was always ruthless in his own subtle way. He was raised to think in terms of efficiency; of usefulness, and Midorima has caught glimpses of a colder nature – a shift in the state of his mind when he follows problems to their logical conclusion. He always prioritized results. It’s his methodology that changed the most.

Failure is not an option. This is the code Akashi lives and dies by, and it is a cruel and harsh code, but one with which Midorima can relate.

Few men are born with a single-minded drive and an unyielding tenacity and will strong enough to overcome their own fate, and perhaps born to a different family Akashi would have turned out differently, for brilliance alone is not enough for greatness.

When Murasakibara challenged Akashi, he couldn’t have had an inkling of what he was doing, of what he was going to unleash.

You see, few men in this world are able to overcome even themselves.

But Akashi Seijuurou is a rarity among men.

Teikou is victorious. Teikou is unstoppable. Teikou is legendary. Teikou is _absolute_.

Midorima doesn’t know where the first crack started. Maybe the coach’s illness. Maybe Aomine’s blooming strength. Or maybe it all began when Kuroko joined the team. All he knows is that eventually, the Generation of Miracles' cracks met in the middle, and they caused a landslide.

_Generation of Monsters._

They are not monsters. They are circumstance. This is simply their fate, and Midorima has always done everything humanly possible to exert his best effort so that he may be chosen by fate.

After all, "Man proposes, God disposes."

But fate is a fickle creature.

In the course of his life, Midorima has repeatedly tried and failed to understand Akashi's place within the system of his beliefs. He has tried and failed to teach him the concept of defeat. He has tried, desperately, to ascertain what it is about Akashi that allows him the luck to win, and he has failed on this front as well.

Midorima knows why his shots always sink. He knows what must be done in order to ensure this. But Akashi? How does Akashi succeed at so many things? It’s not just skill, either; there is an element of luck involved. Midorima would know. He’s challenged Akashi to games of chance before, and although Akashi usually hates to get involved in silly contests that carry an automatic disadvantage in them, he’s done it once or twice to appease Midorima. He always won.

Akashi is a deviation. An irregularity. An exception to the rule.

He watches, unmoving, and with bated breath as Akashi turns to face him. There’s a precision in the way Akashi steps toward him, and Midorima’s thoughts drift to the mathematics – to the principles and the concepts and he thinks he may grow mad questioning why Akashi is the wall _he_ cannot overcome. Akashi may have finally experienced defeat in the Winter Cup, but this changes nothing between them.

Akashi’s hand is outstretched, an invitation, and Midorima blinks once – twice – because this is beyond the scope of what he imagined from:

point a; receiving the call

point b; boarding the nearest subway

point c; arriving just at dusk to this metropolitan park

Akashi has never been one to do things without a purpose. That’s just the kind of person he is, and always has been. He should have expected this when he received his call, but Akashi still manages to take him off balance – both on and _off_ the court.

All Midorima can remember is –

_“I want to be your enemy.”_

Six words. One noun – enemy.

Midorima retracts his hand, embarrassed and saddened by this outcome all at once. Deep down, he probably knew how his offer would end, but it doesn’t make the blow sting any less when Akashi won’t even shake his hand.

Only now –

"I want to be your friend."

Six words. One noun – friend.

What a difference a single word can make.

Akashi’s eyes are on his, pointed and curious. He’s left himself completely and utterly open.

The proverbial ball is in Midorima’s court, and he’s not used to this feeling. Not where Akashi, of all people, is concerned.  
  
In hindsight, he thinks he knows Akashi always held the winning piece in their war, but when he sees Akashi’s hand all he can picture is the hundreds of words they left unsaid back in those days, and the unguarded expression in Akashi’s eyes is like an open door.

There are constants in life. There are variables.

Akashi Seijuurou is a constant.

The outcome of this handshake is the variable.

* * *

When his other self fully manifested, there were days he distinctly remembers being aware of watching himself act, like being trapped in a waterlogged coffin that just keeps sinking further and further to the bottom of the ocean.

The first week after the Winter Cup, he feels overwhelmingly tired. There are dark lines around the creases of his eyes, and they are even redder than usual. That sense of detachment, of being less than real, weighs on him just as it did before.

Lately, he occasionally gets headaches. The dull, aching pressure on the left side of his head causes him to close one eye, and he laughs quietly to himself as he sets down the brush in his hand lest he make a careless stroke and ruin the calligraphy.

When he was younger, he occasionally wondered what having a sibling would be like. He wouldn’t say he was lonely – his studies kept him busy – but being an only child, he assumes this was likely a fairly normal thought for him to have.

He never knew a little brother could be so troublesome.

Sometimes he wonders if he should ask someone for help, and then he promptly discards this thought. This situation is his fault; it is his burden – his weakness – to bear. He will endure it as he endured everything else in his life.

Since a young age, it was never a question whether people would defer to Akashi. He was – is – a prodigy, and this has always been an inescapable and undeniable truth. In middle school, Nijimura ceded his captainship over to Akashi willingly. This was not something Akashi asked for – just as winning in and of itself was never something Akashi strove for.

_You can't call anyone who can lead people so naturally "normal."_

True, there are many who might say Akashi’s circumstances aren’t necessarily special or unique. In this society there are many parents who force unfathomable expectations on children. The difference, however, lies only in the fact that Akashi was able to meet all of these expectations unfailingly and without slowing down.

Akashi Seijuurou is a leader, and this has always been his greatest strength and his ultimate curse.

When he chose to attend Rakuzan High it was not a question whether or not people would make way for him. One by one the players known as the Uncrowned Kings, second only to the Generation of Miracles in terms of strength, fell in line. There were no complaints, no whispers behind his back debating whether or not he deserved the title of captain. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, and everyone in Rakuzan High knew this.

He earned the respect of those around him, but they would be fools to think this respect was not an inevitability. No, no one ever questioned Akashi’s capability. His words were heeded with little argument – as if it were a natural given in life. (And maybe it is.)

The first and only time his words were challenged –

_“I don't wanna listen to someone weaker than me.”_

– the first and only time was also the last.

Murasakibara attacked a foundational truth of Akashi’s existence, and his unconsciousness reacted to defend him in a way that was necessary. A softer hand was useless against the Miracles’ growing power, and he had to regain control of the situation.

A flip of the switch.

He changed because the team changed, and reinforced his absolute philosophy in the face of overwhelming odds. After that day, Akashi never suffered his authority to be challenged again. Those who dared were educated, left reeling, taken off balance and forced to the ground. Players who opposed him collapsed with resounding finality onto the hard court, their breath escaping them in startled gasps with the realization of their imminent defeat.

Akashi learned young that history does not favor the weak. Vulnerability is a mistake, and it is far better to be feared rather than loved. Kind to those who serve him, but ruinous to those who oppose him. The stories that are remembered, the stories that are worth telling, are ancient and vicious and they often end with a shout rather than a whisper. Sometimes shows of force are the only way to make people listen.

In the past, he had little trouble getting a good night’s rest. He slept fitfully, and this was out of necessity. He keeps a strict schedule and it is only possible to adhere to this schedule with a full night’s rest.

But playing catch up in your own life is not as simple of a task as he imagined it would be. Though he may be back, things are not the same, and he does not sleep very fitfully anymore. He takes afternoon naps when he can spare them, but every time – there's that feeling again. A hole in his chest. An aching sensation in his heart, and –

_You want to kill me, don't you?_

The voice is near incomprehensible to him, the edges of the sound are ragged and weary, and this place reminds him so much of before, of the agonizing waiting, of needles pricking against the lids of his eyes. In this place, all he is afforded are fleeting and vague impressions of the outer world. It is a labyrinth where each interconnecting passage leads to another city of utter oblivion.

The dreams are a cruel reminder of the cracks in his life, the spaces between his consciousnesses. He enters a deserted classroom, and the tiles creak under the pressure of his feet as if they are broken floorboards. The walls are the same but the atmosphere is different, the silence is of a different sort entirely.

The fresh smell of spring fades as quickly as it comes, and from the window of the room he can see the leaves cut themselves on each other as they shake free from the branches, so eager to join their dead brethren on the ground. He sees his own reflection in the window as well, but somehow the person looking back at him is not quite right.

He flinches at the sound of nimble fingers alighting against ivory keys. The beginning measures of Schubert's D. 959 drifts through the fractures in his psyche, and it pulls him, it commands him to go. Before his brain can catch up with his body, he finds himself standing in the doorframe of another classroom, eyes focused and intense on the way Midorima's hands make the notes come to life.

Isn't this a dream? But this feels...

It feels like memory, it feels like the melody of all the things he repressed in order to survive.

When Midorima plays the piano, he plays it for himself. There is no obligation or reason behind the action. He does it because he enjoys it. This is a skill Akashi has, regretfully, never been able to master.

Midorima does not notice he is there, too consumed with correcting the slight slip of his finger. It's unnecessary for him to be so painstaking, his form is already perfect –

"Ehh, Aka-chin, how long have you been standing there? Come in," Murasakibara raises a weary head from the desk he’s half-dozing on, gesturing for Akashi to join them.

Midorima turns his head and emerald eyes meet red and yellow.

Akashi tries to speak. His lips are moving, only there’s nothing coming out.

Two hands wrap around his throat, limp and tired but they’re squeezing with renewed vigor – begging to be acknowledged – begging to be made real –

Not just any hands. _His_ hands.

His eyes fly open, head jolting off the back of his pillow. He shoves the covers from his body and stumbles into his bathroom, flicks on the light –

Left. Red.

He exhales, tension sagging from his shoulders in the reflection of the mirror.

There are two Akashi Seijuurous. They do not feel like two different people to him, though.

He knows, on a rational level, that these are simply dreams. Figments of his imagination. His other half is not truly a separate identity trapped inside his body – he is part of him, but knowing and understanding is not enough to control the mind-numbing echo of his words resounding in his ears, tense and grim, because maybe they are true.

How do you kill a part of yourself?

An even better question would be: does he really want to?

Akashi turns on the faucet, and douses his face with cold water. He looks into the mirror again, watches as the beads of liquid slide down his cheek and drip, drip, drip to the countertop…

Somehow the person looking back at him is still not quite right.

He walks out of the bathroom and picks up the phone, dialing the first number that comes to mind.

* * *

Midorima’s hand is warm and accepting in his despite the cool weather and he shakes twice for good measure before withdrawing.

"I apologize for disturbing you so late," Akashi says.

“It’s fine,” Midorima says. “Should we sit?”

He glances to one of the park’s small circular tables situated under a tall oak tree’s low hanging branches, and Akashi acquiesces.

This is the thing about Midorima. This intangible, unspoken, connection that he cannot begin to explain. And that’s it, isn’t it? Akashi never _needs_ to explain, because Midorima already understands.

Akashi dusts a thin layer of leaves off the round tabletop, and gets comfortably situated in his chair. Midorima surprises him when he produces a travel shogi board from inside his messenger bag, and begins setting up the pieces.

“You always were direct,” Akashi says.

About thirty minutes into the match, a drop of water lands on the back of Akashi’s hand as he slides his silver general one square diagonally across the board. He glances up, and a drizzle of rain greets him through the tree’s branches.

Midorima groans in annoyance as he reaches under the table.

The drizzle turns into a torrent in mere seconds, beating down over the table and their jackets in endless, heavy and fast sheets that quickly cloud Midorima’s glasses. Akashi’s red hair turns an even deeper shade of crimson under the downpour. The water drips off his locks and glides down his neck, soaking through his collar.

He slides back his chair, ready to head for the nearest building for shelter before his clothes are completely saturated when Midorima pops open an umbrella large enough to cover the table and both of them. He situates the umbrella between one of the branches hanging right over the table and tests it, nodding approvingly when it proves sturdy and balanced enough to stay in position over both of them without the need to hold it himself.

"My lucky item for today was a black umbrella," he explains. "You know, the weather forecast didn’t even hint for rain."

The rain pings hard off the umbrella, hissing at contact, the water veiling around them.

Akashi cannot suppress the crooked grin that breaks out on his face. “How… very fortunate, Midorima.”

He glances up at their makeshift roof that is this black umbrella and chuckles.

"I thought you didn’t believe in coincidence," Midorima says as he opens his bag again.

He wipes the water smudges off of his glasses with a microfiber lens cleaning cloth, conscientious as ever, until he is fully satisfied with their state.

"I don’t. I do, however, believe in your keen preparation skills."

Midorima reaches out his left hand, fingers touching the edge of his rook, when both of them simultaneously notice the bandages are wet. His emerald eyes widen in equal parts frustration and disgust.

“This is why we should have moved indoors,” he levels Akashi with a critical glare.

He can’t disagree with Midorima’s assessment. It was already a bit chilly out, and the rain has only made this worse, but the deep vertical line that pulls between his green brows as he glowers at Akashi is just too easy. Midorima’s irritation is always plain on his face, and it is a key difference between them.

“And miss the lovely weather?”

Midorima scowls at him, pillaging through his bag to find extra bandages.

“I could have sworn they were in here,” he says, double checking.

“Do you want to go?”

Midorima doesn’t seem to hear him, though, completely consumed in his frantic search. About a minute passes and he comes up empty handed and raises his eyes to meet Akashi’s again.

"It’s your fault, you know.”

"My fault?”

"Today's Oha Asa rankings... your sign was ranked last. First the rain. Now my bandages. Your bad luck is rubbing off on me. You’re the problem here."

"Hmmm," Akashi makes a noise. “Maybe. But I think it would be more problematic if you thought you could relax around me after my defeat.”

Midorima drops the bag, as if to emphasize his vexation, and asks, “Do you think I’m foolish to continue challenging you expecting different results, Akashi?”

“Of course not. A vague ideal is powerless, after all.”

Midorima purses his lips, seemingly nonplussed with his response, so Akashi elaborates.

"Midorima, we both have our… idiosyncrasies,” he laughs quietly under his breath. “You’re disciplined. Something most people aren’t. I respect that about you. If I’m the problem, then I will offer you a solution.”

Akashi holds out his hand across the small table, palm open. Midorima goes quiet, lowering his eyes back to the board in a false pretense of determining his next move. For a moment, the only sound that can be heard is the steady, dull thud of the rain shuddering upon the umbrella. A muffled, disinterested noise comes from behind Midorima’s closed lips as he places his bandaged hand in Akashi’s.

It’s reflex. Akashi’s eyes register a distinct shift in Midorima’s breathing pattern, there’s an acceleration in the rhythmic beating of his heart. Everything magnifies, and Akashi can pinpoint the change down to a divided second, down to the singular moment when Midorima’s neck stiffens.

Akashi tests his theory.

He cradles Midorima’s hand in his left, and with his right he tugs, gently, at the wet bandages around his index finger, loosening them by a fraction, and his thumb traces a ghost of a touch across the back of his knuckles. Midorima promptly looks away from the board as if he’s been burned.

Akashi has never believed in luck, he has never believed the way Midorima believes, he has never needed to, not when he can conceive of the future.

But as he listens to the uneven pattern of rain splashing around them, as his fingers make slow work of unwrapping the soaked bandages from Midorima’s hand, he realizes he never conceived of this. Life can be terribly unpredictable.

"Did you play?" Midorima’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

Akashi’s hand stills over his. That’s not his real question.

"I played alone. Save a few tournaments I participated in. You?"

"Alone, and against other people online occasionally."

"Were they any good?"

"No, I beat them all."

Akashi smirks and returns to the bandages, peeling the wet fabric off his middle and ring finger.

"About what you said before – you've tasted defeat now. It's not a nice feeling, is it?"

Akashi’s expression turns inscrutable before he gives Midorima a wry grin. "It's not, but I've always been curious about things beyond my experience. I can use the knowledge to my advantage now.”

With his free hand, Midorima captures one of his pieces. Akashi examines the board, offering a faint humming noise in the back of his throat at this unforeseen development.

“That doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you, though,” Akashi says, tugging the remains of the bandages off with a flick of his wrist.

Midorima’s hand flexes and unflexes in his own, free from the constraints of the material. He slowly withdraws his hand from Akashi’s, but there’s a faint upturn of his lips – the tiniest trace of a smile.

“There’s a convenience store nearby. I can replace the bandages,” Akashi says.

“No, I have more at home. I can wait. I want to keep playing before it gets too late.”

Akashi nods, a slight smile on his face, and returns his attention to the board.

* * *

It’s a paradox, you see.

He’s staring at someone with the exact same face, down to his very pores, and he’s denying what he’s saying, but what he’s saying is undeniable.

_I, who wins everything, am always right._

Only he hasn’t won everything. This statement is null and void now.

But his other half hasn’t lost. Right? Something cannot be false and true at the same time.

“You did lose,” Akashi says. “We’re the same.”

“No. We’re different.”

How can he be so unreasonable? How can his own mind hold two completely opposing ideas and still function? He can’t kill someone who already exists inside him. It’s not possible.

His other half’s unshakeable sense of self-confidence in his ability is rather admirable, even if it’s misguided at this particular point in time. So, he tries a different approach.

“Then it was me. Do you want me to take responsibility? You cannot even own up to the fact that you committed an error?”

“I — that’s not — possible —”

_In this world, winning is everything –_

There’s a screeching, ripping noise in the back of his skull.

_Because otherwise…_

“I —”

_Winners are validated and losers are denied –_

As if on replay he sees Seirin get a turnover off of him, stuck on an endless loop, and were he not in such a deep slumber, Akashi surely would have jerked awake by now because the memory of this is too taxing, it feels like bile in the back of his throat and when he does awaken, he will wake with the taste of that regret.

_Because otherwise…_

The next words he doesn’t expect. They’re not the sort of thing one can prepare for.

“I’m sorry,” his other self says.

He hangs his head in mute defeat as he sinks to his knees. His uniform, the number four, wrinkles as he completes his descent, as he comes undone down to his very roots. He sprawls out on the floor, and every syllable he whispers through a jagged jaw is spoken with shaking hands.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t win. I failed you.”

It’s not right. Seeing his own likeness rendered helpless in this way. It’s salt pouring into a raw open wound just before cauterizing it. The poison is trapped beneath his veins, the bones are between his teeth, the dried blood is caking the inside of his mouth and he thinks he will spend an eternity trying to scrub the debris out.

He realizes he is afraid. He is afraid to touch him. He is afraid he will disappear.

Even in dreams, Akashi’s universe is a crumbling kingdom, a never-ending battlefield where his only adversary is a distorted image of himself. Even in dreams, he chases after fleeting visions of his doppelgänger. He cuts him down, and then he raises him back up. He has trouble remembering the aftermath of them – the dreams – sometimes he wakes up shivering with the sensation of fear a lump in his throat, others he is empty and cold and has the vague memory of currents pulling him under.

Tomorrow he will wake with wet eyes, a trace of regret on his tongue, but he will feel peaceful in a way he hasn’t for months.

Akashi bends down to him, and places a hesitant hand to his shoulder. “You didn’t fail me. You did everything you could.”

The overwhelming sense of needing to protect him floods through him, because even though they’re the same… it’s so hard not to feel that divide, because his other half is still a separate, functioning being on some level, and in retrospect, he can’t even begin to tell where the two of them begin and end.

Time passes. This is a reality of life – an absolute of existence.

There is a flux to all things, and even if Akashi cannot determine that change right now, he will eventually. He has the Emperor Eye, and he can see a myriad of paths – he can see everything. It's glorious and terrible, but it's who he is.

When he doesn’t reply, he throws caution to the wind, and embraces his trembling self in what resembles a hug.

“I’ll take it from here,” he whispers into his ear. “Sleep.”

He knows his other half isn’t gone; he will probably never fully disappear. The process to even begin thinking about that would require opening up to another individual – visiting a psychiatric professional – and Akashi isn’t sure if he’s ready for that yet.

In the future, he will be.

There are countless paths open to him, and it is such a simple matter to take them.

* * *

In truth, Akashi doesn’t have a brother. He doesn’t even really have a father either. He had a mother, but he lost her. The concept of family is something he understands on a logical level, but has little experience with in reality.

Hayama nearly knocks him over when he launches at him from behind, slamming straight into his back. He wraps an arm over his shoulder and around his neck.

“Akashi! Akashi! How was your New Year?!”

“Kotarou, how many times have I told you I’ll kill you if you break Sei-chan’s neck?”

Mibuchi appears next to them, and Hayama pouts as he releases his hold on Akashi.

“Oh come on, he’s not that fragile. Remember that time he arm wrestled me?” Nebuya ruffles Akashi’s hair.

“It was relatively uneventful,” Akashi says. “Which I was grateful for.”

Hayama shakes his head back and forth, overly excited as usual, “Reo-nee, what did you do over the break?!”

“Would you stop being so noisy? You’re giving me whiplash.”

No, Akashi simply wasn’t made to rely on anyone other than himself, not outside the court anyway.

There was a time in his life when he wanted freedom more than anything, but those desires were crushed beneath his heel and subsumed under his more pressing need to survive – i.e.; win.

But as he watches his teammates playfully berate each other in the hallway, a sense of relief washes over him, and he cannot help but softly smile at their antics because he thinks…

He thinks he might be learning.

(And maybe life isn’t so black and white, after all.)

* * *

He lies in his dormitory bedroom two weeks after winter break, eyes drifting shut when he hears his phone. Groggy, he slips the phone out from under his pillow, not bothering to check the caller ID before answering.

“Yes?”

“Akashi, are you happy?”

He rolls over onto his bare stomach, cradling the phone between his ear and neck as he tries to snap himself awake. A few seconds pass before what Midorima says fully registers in his mind.

What an odd question. In the past, he recalls people asking him: “Do you enjoy basketball?” He never had an answer for them then. Enjoyment is not necessary for victory.

Akashi glances at the clock on his phone. 23:45. Midorima should have already been done with his stretches and fast asleep by now.

“Is something wrong?”

“Don’t be evasive, Akashi. You told me to ‘become less compassionate.’ So, tell me, do you still feel the same?”

He runs one hand through messy red hair before dragging it down his face, trying to force the sleep from his eyes. He restrains himself from yawning into the phone.

“Did I say something over the break that gave you this assumption?”

“No – I – ” there’s a disgruntled noise on the other end of the line. “Yes? I don’t know, Akashi, sometimes I can’t read you.”

Akashi mulls over his words for a moment, dropping his head to his pillow as he readjusts the phone.

"Perhaps things are not always as clear-cut as I imagined them to be,” he says, finally.

The line is dead for several minutes, and Akashi begins to wonder if Midorima has accidentally fallen asleep on him when –

“Our game. We didn’t finish.”

“I’ll be in Tokyo next weekend. We can continue then.”

There’s a ‘hmph’ of approval from Midorima on the other end. “Good. I’ll see you then.”

“Wait. Shintarou _…_ ” Akashi sighs his name into the receiver. “For the record, you know me better than anyone.”

 

The line goes dead again.

* * *

Akashi tilts his head, bringing one leg up on his chair. He rests his forearm against his bent knee.

"Interesting," he murmurs.

His thumb peeks out from the hem of his long-sleeve shirt, which is pulled needlessly far over his hand, and he toys at his bottom lip with it as he examines the board.

Midorima recognizes the tone in his voice. He's heard it before, and it always sounds the same. It's this thing intrinsic in Akashi no matter what state he finds him in. There's a shift in his voice, almost like he's indulging the person he's speaking to. A thrilling spark comes to life in his eyes and his mouth twists into something resembling excitement? hope? anticipation? (It’s near impossible to define.)

For all Akashi talks about knowing everything, Midorima is well aware he enjoys being taken off-guard and surprised. It's stimulating for him - it's the _challenge_ he craves, and it’s the rare time Midorima sees it show on his face and in his voice.

Akashi may have lost for the first time in his life, but he stands up from defeat faster than most would think possible. He adjusts to new circumstances and adapts quickly, because at the end of the day... he's still _Akashi._

Victory will always be an integral part of who he is. There is nothing beyond his limitations.

"Midorima," he snaps his fingers, breaking his reverie. "Lost in thought? It's your move."

Midorima blinks, dark eyelashes fluttering behind his frames, and he adjusts his glasses before saying, “I was simply thinking of how much I’m looking forward to making you surrender.”

Akashi chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Shintarou.”

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone interested, the title **_not otherwise specified_** is a reference to 'dissociative disorder not otherwise specified' which is a diagnosis for coding disorders wherein the predominant feature is a dissociative symptom, but doesn't fully match criteria for any of the specific subtypes.
> 
> Akashi clearly exhibits a form of dissociative identity disorder – he has distinct personality states, but he does not have a lack of recall/amnesia for personal information when he switches those states, which is probably only due to Fujimaki not spending a lot of time properly fleshing out his symptoms/disorder to begin with. That means the closest estimation I can make would be ‘dissociative disorder not otherwise specified.'


End file.
